


Night Terrors

by SuperWhoLockian75



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Palace, Mystery, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperWhoLockian75/pseuds/SuperWhoLockian75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock returns from his 3yr escapade taking down Moriarty's web, John begins to notice him having bad dreams. But these apparent nightmares aren't what they seem; something dark has escaped from Sherlock's Mind Palace and now it's wreaking havoc on Sherlock's memories. Can John help Sherlock stop it in time? Or will he lose his friend to this memory that should've stayed hidden?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Power Outtage

* * *

           Most nights were pretty good since Sherlock came home after those 3 long years of fighting, running, and being oh so clever. It was definitely quite a shocker when he showed up at the flat for the first time while John was making tea in the kitchen. It cost John a pretty nice tea pot that Mrs. Hudson had given him as a birthday present as consequence. Getting back into the rhythm of things again did take some effort and, after an equally shocking visit to Lestrade, they were back solving mystery after mystery as if nothing had happened.

           But there were some things that Sherlock didn't like to talk about; things that John knew haunted his mind every now and then because he could recognize it on Sherlock's face as he did years ago on his own after getting back from the war. He wouldn't say it was PTSD, Sherlock was too resolved and clever for those illusions and flashbacks to fool him, so John summed it up to simply bad memories. Until those bad memories started to come to life, so to speak.

           It was a particularly cold evening in March in the flat on Baker Street mainly because the heating had quit after a power outage occurred several hours prior. John and Sherlock made use of the fireplace in the sitting room and a makeshift campsite was now present in front of it. The fire was nice and toasty, but it didn't reach past the sitting room by any means which included their respective bedrooms, forcing them to take refuge in front of the fire hopefully for just the one night. Of course no power meant no internet or TV which didn’t leave much for Sherlock to focus on other than the forever changing flames within the fireplace, and even that didn’t occupy him for long.

           “Bored.” Sherlock mumbled. He was sitting in front of the fireplace with his long legs tucked under his chin and his equally long arms wrapped around his legs. His chin was resting on top of his knees while his eyes were focused on the flames. John, on the other hand, was dozing in his armchair comfortably covered in blankets with a cooling mug of tea on the table next to him. He lifted his head slightly with half-opened eyes and frowned at Sherlock.

           “Well, it is after all night time, did you ever think about, I dunno, _sleeping_?” John asked with a hint of sarcasm and an obvious tiredness to his voice. Sherlock just tugged the quilted blanket around him closer and said nothing. John sighed and snuggled in further into the chair.

           “Well you’re not gonna start shooting the wall again at two in the morning, so go to your mind palace or something and— _yawn_ —chase some old bad guys around…” John murmured towards the end and was soon drifting back off to sleep. Sherlock looked up at his friend from the floor and made a noise of exasperation with a hint of jealousy.

           “I wish I could…” Sherlock whispered to himself. Reluctantly, he stood up with the blanket still wrapped around him and pushed his leather chair closer to the fireplace where it would definitely retain the heat the fire was putting out. Animal skin had a lovely way of doing so. After becoming content with the surface temperature of his chair, Sherlock settled down in it and pulled his legs up to his chest; minimizing the amount of space where his body heat would escape and rewrapped the blanket around him for better coverage. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock settled in and placed his head on the back of the chair; staring up at the ceiling almost willing it to start cracking or to do something interesting. But of course it didn’t so Sherlock closed his eyes and did as John suggested, he searched his Mind Palace for something interesting to remember.

* * *

 


	2. The Mind Palace

* * *

            Most people using this technique had simply a road or a room or two to help them remember things easier, but Sherlock wasn’t like most people. In every sense of the word his Mind Palace was every meaning of the word “palace” with its several stories and countless rooms, its ornate decorations and furniture, and its vivid images placed all around the giant structure. Each step brought him back further and further to memories and events from long ago that anyone else would forget after a few minutes of experiencing. But to most people ordinary things that occur in their everyday lives aren’t that important in the first place to bother remembering. Except for Sherlock, where these things made his job possible.

            He entered through the tall and decorated front gate and began walking down the long drive to the palace. Already memories from decades ago were coming into focus, but these things weren’t what he wanted to remember right now. With practiced effort, Sherlock focused on the top floor and northern wing of the building and soon found himself time-jumping there. It was a little different than teleporting because there was no disappearing and reappearing somewhere else, it was as if he took one long step and everything around him stretched and warped until he was where he wanted to be. Now he was placed in the middle of a finely carpeted hallway where golden candelabras illuminated the walls as well as a chandelier atop a four-way intersection further down the hall. The walls were wallpapered the familiar pattern of the sitting room in 221B and Sherlock found himself placing a hand on it, finding comfort in the place he now called home with the only person he’d ever consider sharing it with. These hallways were specifically reserved for his memories with John at the flat hence why they were so finely preserved and cared for, but there was something odd further down the hall that wasn’t supposed to be there.

            Sherlock walked down the seemingly endless hallway, passing dozens of rooms where memories of him and John were always being replayed and catalogued for relevance. If one of them seemed to have outlived its usefulness, it was discarded and renovated for a new memory to take its place. However, this rarely happened in this section of the northern wing lately, considering how long Sherlock had been away from John he wanted to make sure he held on to whatever memories he could of them. Those memories were what kept him alive every now and then during those three years.

            As he was approaching the seemingly damaged part of the hallway, Sherlock felt something different change. There was no clear distinction as to what, but _something_ had definitely been altered, and not by his own doing. The air in the hall felt as if it was slowly getting sucked out and Sherlock began finding it hard to breathe. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, not here. Not in his Mind Palace. This was where he could go and shape everything into the image he wanted and needed to see, where he could remember all the good times and learn from the bad times. And now it looked as though the palace had a mind of its own.

            Now at the section, Sherlock could see what was wrong but couldn’t believe his mind’s eye. Wall after wall and door after door was scorched nearly black and what was left of the wallpaper was peeling away and was distorted. The candelabras hung off of the walls at odd angles and were badly damaged from the apparent flames while some of them were just plain gone. The fine rug that once held a complex and beautiful pattern was now torn and ashen, parts of the wooden floor showing underneath where the rug no longer covered. Even the sturdy wooden doors made from maple wood much like most of his violin were beginning to crumble and blacken. Sherlock braced his back against an opposite wall and sank to the floor, staring in horror at what had happened. It was possible that a memory had gone rogue, so to speak, but there was no event in his life that directly linked to a fire. Sure there were the odd experimental explosions here and there and that one time in Baskervilles with the mind field, but nothing like this. This could be compared to a standard house fire or worse, arson, and nothing like that had ever happened to him before.

            Sherlock brought his legs up in front of him and placed his elbows on top of his knees, bowing his head and placing his hands on the back of his neck trying to think. What memory could possibly have done this? It was going to take several hours of deep thought just to fix this section of the hall, and God only knows if any other part of the palace was damaged. After all, the actual size of the palace was always growing because Sherlock was always remembering; always cataloguing what was and what wasn’t important. Lifting his head up and leaning back against the wall, Sherlock knew he’d have to go in the one wing he thought he’d never have to go in again.

            The Dungeon Wing.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry these are all so short, they looked much longer when I was typing them up in Word. Have no fear, I have a feeling they'll be getting longer.


	3. What's Buried Should Stay Buried

* * *

           Back in reality, the fire in the fireplace was beginning to simmer back down to embers and the resting bodies of John and Sherlock could feel it. The sudden chill woke John and his sleepy eyes focused on the dimming flames, then he sighed knowing he’d have to get up and get cold in order to freshen up the fire. Making sure to keep his jacket and a blanket close around him, John rose from his chair and walked over to the fireplace to add more wood to it when he glanced over at Sherlock’s seemingly sleeping figure. There was something seriously wrong. The extinguishing fire now forgotten, John dashed over to Sherlock and saw that he was sweating despite the cold and the fact that he only had one blanket on to counteract it. His eyes were dashing about below his eyelids which could be easily mistaken for REM sleep, except for the fact that his arms, hands, and such were still moving slightly. John knew that the body was paralyzed during REM sleep, therefore making that solution impossible. For a fleeting moment he relaxed slightly, thinking it could just be a nightmare, until a hand shot out and grabbed him around his throat like a vise. Out of instinct, John grabbed at Sherlock’s hand with both of his own and tried to pull it loose, but the fingers wouldn’t budge.

            “Sherlock—” John choked out even though he knew his efforts were futile. Surprisingly Sherlock’s eyes shot open and stared emptily back at John’s; completely void of consciousness and emotion. His face, however, shone of rage and hatred for the person he was trying to choke the life out of in his dream. John fought to catch his breath and free the grip that was slowly crushing his windpipe, but the world around him was gradually becoming blurry and hard to focus on. “Sherlock stop!” He croaked out again in a last-ditch effort to awaken his friend, but Sherlock’s eyes were still unseeing and John was quickly running out of air.

* * *

 

            Sherlock had managed to make his way out of the cindered hallway, down the cobblestone staircase, and finally into the Dungeon. It was much safer for him and his memories if he traveled on foot rather than a time-jump because the Dungeon was full of memories that were corrupt and dangerous, but still necessary to remember. If he time-jumped in the wrong spot down here the chaotic images and feelings would most certainly overtake him and keep him trapped here for an unknown amount of time. It was impossibly dark and cold, but vibrated with an uneasy energy that Sherlock had all but forgotten about. A few torches lined the cracked walls at inconsistent intervals causing odd periods of lightness and darkness as he walked down the corridor.

            The doors down here were far different than the ones in the palace; for starters, they weren’t made from wood but instead reinforced steel and had a small rectangular shaped peep-hole built into it with a matching hinged cover. This was so Sherlock, if he so wished, could look inside for only a moment to gather the info he needed then close the window and move on. Each door was numbered starting at 1 and ended at God only knows where for there were always going to be bad memories Sherlock would need to hold onto for information. As he passed door number 20 nothing seemed to be out of place, until he stopped in front of 21.

            “Oh no…” Sherlock spoke quietly as he saw the wreckage that used to be the cell that contained a memory from a murder he never wanted to commit. The steel door was nearly off of its hinges and was hanging oddly outside the cell. It was incredibly dented and the number “21” that was plated on the front of it was starting to fall off. On the inside it was almost completely dark except for the one hanging light on the ceiling that shown a dull yellow, casting the rest of the room in shadow. If this memory was loose inside his Mind Palace, it could easily wreak havoc on his retained memories and destroy them. If that happened Sherlock would lose everything; his memories of his childhood, who Lestrade and Mycroft were, and even John and how important he was to him. Sherlock couldn’t let that happen.

            Gathering all the courage and strength he had, Sherlock slowly stepped into the cell; carefully using his peripheral vision to gauge any unseen threat in the shadows. Once underneath the yellow glow of the ceiling bulb he did a 360 trying to peer into the darkness for any clue as to how this memory could’ve gotten loose. There wasn’t anything abruptly obvious that he could see—until a hand launched out from the shadows and clamped itself around Sherlock’s throat, pinning him to one of the metal walls. Sherlock immediately grabbed onto the assailants wrist with both of his hands trying to pry its grip free of his throat, but the effort only made the figure squeeze tighter. He could feel his pulse pounding in his head and the crushing pressure against his trachea as the memory clamped tighter and laughed a deep, disturbing laugh that Sherlock could’ve sworn he’d destroyed months ago. As his vision started to swirl and waver, he knew that if he died here he would perish in real life too; that was how the body worked and, if it was starved of the mind, then everything else would die.

            Sherlock would have none of that.

            With his last remaining strength, he brought up his knee abruptly and slammed it into the assailant’s groin causing him to release Sherlock’s throat and stumble back clutching the injured area. Sherlock doubled over, coughing and gasping for breath and rubbing his now-bruised neck with his hand. He looked up at the shadowed figure, whom of which seemed to recover faster than Sherlock expected, and straightened himself.

            “I should have known better than to just leave you in this standard cell, you’re much too volatile for it aren’t you?” Sherlock scolded himself with a raspy voice and coughed lightly, then continued. “I suppose some things are better left forgotten than remembered, I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

            “There won’t be a next time.” The voice from the memory spoke with a clear English accent and harshness to it. He then stood right below the hanging light where Sherlock would be able to see him more clearly.

            “We’ll see about that, Sebastian. This time you don’t get a cell, but instead the incinerators where you won’t harm anything ever again… at least not in here.” Sherlock retorted and took a couple steps towards him, but Sebastian held a hand up.

            “Do you really think it’s going to be that easy? I’m out now, and it’s time to have a little _fun_ ; especially after what you did to the boss.” He sneered at the last part, knowing full well what became of Moriarty.

            “ _I_ did nothing; _he_ was the one who shot himself in the head much to my own surprise. So don’t blame me for your boss’s stupidity.” Sherlock snapped, but Sebastian just shook his head and smiled.

            “ _You_ were the one who beat him, and he couldn’t take it, therefore his unfortunate end occurred. As far as I’m concerned that means you’re the one responsible, Sherlock Holmes, and now I’m going to take it out of your hide… or rather the interesting part of the inside of it.” Sebastian stated while splaying his arms and doing a slow 360, gesturing that he meant the destruction of the Mind Palace.

            “I’d like to see you try, you’re just a memory that can be easily deleted; like so.” Sherlock snapped his fingers, expecting Sebastian to disappear, but much to the detective’s surprise he remained exactly where he was. The ex-army man slow-clapped and laughed at the look on Sherlock’s face.

            “Oh wow, I can’t believe you actually thought that would work! Moriarty _was_ right about one thing—your ego.” Sebastian took a few steps towards Sherlock until they were at least two inches away from each other’s faces. “It’s gonna take more than just a snap of your fingers to get rid of me clever boy; it’s harder to clean up something filthy rather than polish something that’s clean.” He smirked and chuckled, clearly amused with himself and Sherlock’s current predicament. Without a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock launched a right hook into Seb’s cheekbone, abruptly sending him on his ass and most likely breaking the bone.

            “God I hate it when people like you think they can be smartasses.” Sherlock sneered and shoved Sebastian on his back with his foot, then placed it like a lead weight on his trachea. “Now then, before I end your existence, for good this time, do you have any last words?” Sherlock asked with a tone that suggested he was quite bored of the situation. Sebastian spit out a mouthful of blood and clutched at the ankle that was currently attached to the foot that was crushing his windpipe.

            “Only that I’ll enjoy crushing the life from your blogger before you do.” Sebastian choked out and grinned.

            “What did you just say?” Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth and pushed down harder with his foot.

            “You… may have free reign in here… but your body… is now my _play toy_.” Sebastian laughed and Sherlock immediately withdrew his foot, realizing the seriousness of the situation.

            “What’ve you made me do?!” Sherlock demanded in complete rage. If he had done anything to John because of this… _oh God no_ … Sebastian merely laughed and sat up, wiping the blood off his face.

            “Something you’ll regret when, or _if_ you ever wake up.” Sebastian sneered and within the blink of an eye vanished from the cell.

* * *

 


	4. For John

* * *

           “ _No!_ ” Sherlock screamed and lunged for the apparition, but it was too quick and all he managed to grab was air. He slammed his fist down angrily on the concrete floor. “I swear to God if you’ve hurt John…” He muttered to himself and shut his eyes, attempting to control his anger. _No, emotions will only inhibit you. Focus on the facts. Focus on John._ He quickly imagined himself inside the living room of 221 B and when he opened his eyes it was almost like an out-of-body experience. He was standing a few feet away from his transport—that of which was currently trying to choke the life from his friend.

            Sherlock immediately reacted and tried grabbing at his transport to pull him off, but it was to no avail; his hands went right through his transport’s wrists. Sebastian was in control of his body now. _Think dammit!_ Sherlock scolded himself, clenching and unclenching his fists in frustration. John’s complexion was turning bluer by the second and there was nothing he could do. _Unless…_

            Without a better option, Sherlock lunged forward and jumped into his body, which was safe to say incredibly odd since he knew he was already in his body and… well, he didn’t want to go into great detail about it. Sherlock could feel John’s throat as it was being crushed beneath his hands as well as Sebastian’s memory fighting for control over the transport in his head. There was only one option; complete shutdown. It was the only way to restore Sebastian to where he truly belonged and to regain control over his transport.

            It was also the only way to save John.

            Sherlock focused on his memories of John and could feel them give him strength. _This would work_ , he told himself, _it has to_. Somewhere off in the distance he could hear Sebastian screaming, either in agony or for him to stop Sherlock couldn’t tell which. He just had to last a little bit longer… he could feel his grip lessening on John’s throat and heard John as he took a slight breath. _Not enough._ Sherlock told himself and forced Sebastian to relinquish control of the transport, but the memory was stronger than he anticipated.

            “Sherlock!” John choked out. “Fight it! You have to— _ack!_ —fight it!” He pleaded, and that was all Sherlock needed to turn the tables.

            The sudden memory of him and John clasping hands, handcuffed, and running came into full view. It was one of his fondest memories of John, and the one that would send Sebastian back to the hole he busted out of.

            Sherlock screamed and everything went black.

* * *

 


	5. By the Fire

* * *

            John was thrown flat onto his back, gasping for air and the sound of Sherlock screaming ringing in his ears. Once he regained decent O2 levels again John sat up and rubbed his neck, looking towards his fallen detective. Sherlock had fallen on his side and was completely motionless, in fact, he hardly seemed to be breathing at all. Noticing this John immediately shifted over to him and turned him on his back, putting two fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. Thankfully, there was one; it was faint and rapid, but still there. As for breathing Sherlock wasn’t. Knowing exactly what to do, John started mouth-to-mouth; covering Sherlock’s nose and breathing two breathes into Sherlock’s lungs, then beginning chest compressions to stimulate his diaphragm.

            “Come on Sherlock! You gotta breathe, stay with me!” John yelled at the unconscious man lying before him as he continued CPR. He had no idea what had just happened or why, he just knew that Sherlock had some serious explaining to do if he made it through whatever this was. The doctor continued for several more seconds before the detective spluttered and gasped underneath him, his eyes opening slowly and looking around before settling on John’s face. He couldn’t have been more relieved.

            “J-John? Wha—” Sherlock cut off as he started coughing.

            “Shh, don’t speak. You’ll have plenty of time to tell me what the hell happened later. For right now, though, I need you to try and sit up so I can get you back up into your chair before the cold sends you into shock.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous, that wouldn’t—”

            “Oh shut up and do as I say alright?” John cut him off and placed a hand on Sherlock’s back to support him. A few moments later Sherlock was situated in his leather chair with a blanket wrapped around him and John was checking his vitals much against Sherlock’s protests. When John was satisfied that he wasn’t going to keel over any time soon, he took a seat in his own chair with a blanket and got comfortable.

            “So, you wanna tell me what the hell just happened and why you tried to kill me?” John eventually asked, slightly confused. “I mean I would have figured I’d be one of the last people you’d want to—”

            “It wasn’t me.” Sherlock muttered into the blanket.

            “Sorry what?”

            “I said it wasn’t me!” Sherlock snapped looking across at John who was clearly more confused now. He lifted his head out of the blanket at bit and sighed. “What I mean is that _I_ wasn’t the one choking you. Sure it was my body, but it wasn’t _me_ per say doing it. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s the simplest explanation.” Sherlock rattled off, not giving John much of a chance to understand what he was saying.

            “Wait, what do you mean it wasn’t you?” John asked, still confused. “You weren’t asleep nor were you in the right sleeping state to be moving around, so what _did_ happen?” John pushed, but Sherlock was still reluctant to say anything; he just kept his eyes on the fire. “Sherlock,” John began carefully. “Whatever it was… you _can_ tell me you know. I may not be a psychiatrist, but I do know that talking can help. Even if you think it doesn’t.” He leaned forward a bit in his chair. “This has to do with whatever happened while you were gone doesn’t it?” John quietly asked.

            “Yes.” Sherlock finally answered, still keeping his eyes on the raging flames within the fire place. He squeezed his eyes shut and furrowed his brow in what seemed like anger at… himself perhaps? The reason was unclear to John. “I thought it was something I could control, something I could keep locked up and buried in my head… I was wrong.” He began, opening his eyes. “There were things I did during that time, John, that I would give anything to forget. I’m sure you can relate.” He looked at John. “But I haven’t and can never forget, not really. One of those memories—‘came to life’ so to speak and let’s just say some things went wrong in here.” He gestured to his head. “That’s what attacked you, not me. Just a bad memory.” John looked at him for a moment before speaking.

            “How can a bad memory take over your body like that?” John asked, bewildered. “You don’t have any extra nicotine patches on do you?”

            “No John, I don’t.” Sherlock added quickly. “And I’m not drugged up or mad so don’t you _dare_ assume I am—not you.” He growled out and narrowed his eyes at John.

            “Alright, alright… I’m sorry. But what am I supposed to believe when you of all people are telling me that a memory of all things took control of your body? It just sounds rather farfetched.” John replied and the pair was silent for a moment.

            “You’re right.” Sherlock spoke after some time and John looked over at him, surprised.

            “Sorry, but um… it just sounded like you said _I_ was right. I must be hearing things.”

            “You heard me perfectly fine and I am not repeating myself.” Sherlock said and a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, of course on the side where John wouldn’t be able to see. “If someone were to say that same thing to me I would assume their sanity had been compromised as well. You are not at fault.” He finally admitted and John couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

            “Sherlock, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, it’s just—” John was cut off as the detective let out a strangled cry and clutched at his head, his eyes screwed shut. John immediately reacted and bolted out of the chair, coming to his friend’s aid. “Sherlock, what is it? Come on talk to me.”

            “My head… he’s trying to get out—no! Stop it! Just _stop!_ ” Sherlock yelled still keeping his eyes shut and his teeth clenched. John gripped his shoulders with both hands.

            “Sherlock _listen to me!_ Whatever it is—whatever _he_ is, it can’t hurt you. It’s just a memory and like any other memory it can be _forgotten_. Do you hear me Sherlock? Look at me dammit!” John shifted his hands so they were on either side of Sherlock’s face and the detective opened his eyes, staring desperately at John. “There, you see? He doesn’t control you. Fight back and just _forget him!_ ”

            “But—”

            “No buts, do it. I know you can.” John told him one final time and Sherlock closed his eyes again, focusing on the task at hand. They stayed there for a moment; Sherlock trying to grasp reality and John holding onto Sherlock in hopes it would help him remember what was real and what was just a memory. Sherlock was muttering something to himself that John couldn’t quite make out, then his eyes shot open with a gasp and he released his grasp on his head. He was breathing rather heavily, but gave a small smile nonetheless. “See? Told you you could do it.” John praised Sherlock and took his own hands off Sherlock’s face, but kept one on his shoulder. “Is everything alright up there now?”

            “More or less… I think so.” Sherlock winced. “Although I think I’ll need a couple painkillers for the headache I’m getting.” John just shook his head and smiled, then pushed Sherlock back down into the chair when he tried to get up.

            “Oh no, you’re staying right there. _I’ll_ get them.” John stated and headed to the kitchen to get the medicine and a glass of water. Sherlock leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, soaking in the heat of the fire and the softness of the blankets as well as anything else he could focus on to get his mind off of Sebastian. Sweat had surfaced on his forehead from the exertion and he swiftly ran a hand over his face to wipe it off. He had never meant for this to happen; for John to see him like that. Indeed that was the last thing on his mind. But after everything that had happened, John was still willing to help him and pull him out of oblivion and that surprised even the great mind of Sherlock Holmes. Sure he hadn’t exactly expected John to just sit there and let him suffer, but… perhaps he didn’t know _what_ to expect from his flat mate. After all, John was no ordinary person.

            John came back in the sitting room and handed Sherlock two pills and a glass of water, which Sherlock took without much objection. Satisfied that Sherlock wasn’t going to be stubborn and spit them back out, John got comfortable in his chair with a blanket. Now that the fire had been going for some time the room had gotten to a much more comfortable temperature and three or so blankets weren’t quite necessary.

            “The power should be coming on within the hour.” Sherlock muttered, breaking the silence and John looked at him slightly puzzled.

            “How could you—oh, never mind. You know, we _are_ going to have to talk about this at some point. All of that more than likely happened because you hardly tell me what’s up with you in the first place; other than the typical observation or ‘educated suggestion’ as you like to put it.” John said and Sherlock tore his gaze away from the flames to look at his friend.

            “Yes, I’m aware. And they _are_ educated suggestions, I don’t just tell you what to do without having decent logical bases behind it. If I told you to dress as a rooster and do the chicken dance because it’s a good workout would you do it?” Sherlock retorted and John chuckled.

            “No, definitely not. Look—”

            “No, _you_ look. Let’s just drop it for now alright? I’m tired, I’ve got a headache, and you making me think about things that happened months ago isn’t helping.” Sherlock cut him off, shifting further into the chair and resting his head on the back of the chair. John let out a breath and admit defeat.

            “OK fine, we should _both_ try and get some sleep then, at least until the power comes back on and—” Just as John spoke, the sound of electricity streaming back into the flat silenced him as well as the odd light coming back on around the flat. The kettle and microwave also beeped in the kitchen to signal that they were now active and ready to be used. Sherlock grinned.

            “Told you.”

* * *

 


End file.
